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xvnot15 · 6 months ago

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the quiet says it all

Pairing: Miranda Priestly x Andrea Sachs

Summary: It's in the quiet moments when Andy can feel all the love Miranda holds for her

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, light smut

Notes: this was for an ao3 fic challenge! I hope I did it justice lol

Andy can hear it in the quiet moments.

Well, maybe they aren’t exactly quiet moments but something akin to chaos instead. Nothing inside the halls of Runway or the Elias-Clarke building were ever quiet. At best, the scurried employees’ shoes clicked across the white tile in a rapid staccato. And the phones rang almost nonstop; everyone wants an audience with the elusive editor. Both Emily and Andy constantly field emails and inquiries, the letters on their keyboards weathering away from the amount of use each key takes on a daily basis.

So there aren’t ever any quiet moments, especially with Andy’s pulse thrumming through her veins and in her head whenever she’s near Miranda.

It’ s nothing compared to the stampede in her ears when she learns of Irv’s plan to oust Miranda from her ivory throne, the throbbing she mistakes for a headache stemming from her late night dalliance she’d rather forget about.

She can’t–won’t–let it happen. Not after she found her there, in the dark, bloodshot eyes the only evidence that Miranda had been crying prior to her arrival. Not after she hadn’t tried to hide the pain and inner turmoil the divorce papers had brought. Not after receiving the delicate truth that Miranda was human. A woman with emotions and feelings, not the Ice Queen she had been dubbed since her reign at the magazine.

If Andy has anything, it’s empathy.

Not that she would have let Irv and Jacqeline act out their coup otherwise. Even though Miranda threw insults her way, called her at all times of day and night, demanded of her impossible things such as procuring the not-yet-published Harry Potter manuscript, she had somehow endeared herself to Andy. Through all the bitchiness and ruthlessness, Andy had seen the concerned mother that answered all her childrens’ calls no matter how important the task to be interrupted was. She had seen the woman fighting to prove to the board that she, as a woman, was capable and deserving of her title and her budget. The woman that took a chance on the smart, fat girl. The woman that saw something in Andy that she was curious enough about to keep her around for at least a little bit longer.

The woman that turned everything Andy thought she knew about the world on its head. The woman that demanded nothing but the best from her and didn’t accept any disrespect for her life’s work.

And Andy didn’t quit on that first day. She would rather work for a powerful woman no matter how p than have to endure the misogyny of whatever balding man was no doubt in charge at AutoUniverse. She needed a job, after all. She might as well learn from her proximity to an actually successful editor.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Miranda commanded a room full of people with her soft voice, the way crowds parted for her without so much as an arched brow, the way one tiny insignificant quirk of her lips could have designers on their knees, begging for a second chance. Andy couldn’t understand any of it, why Miranda was so special to everyone around her, why her presence was so intoxicating. But she found out eventually.

She thought she’d have a harder time taking orders, running around on another’s whims instead of sitting at her desk to write, to put her brain to good use. It had taken a few weeks, but she had gotten the hang of the heels and how to spell Gabbana, and then she started to see patterns in Miranda’s demands.

Miranda always needs an extra shot in her coffee when she has to deal with pouty photographers but prefers a pump of caramel after she has a meeting with the board.

Andy gets so good at recognizing the patterns and reading Miranda that she has her lunch on her desk before she herself knows what she wants to eat. A few times, Andy had even had three ibuprofen in her hand before the migraine had reached Miranda’s temples.

Andy also learns how to read between the lines. She knows she’s truly gained Miranda’s begrudging not-quite approval when her barbs start to have less bite. When she can tell Miranda doesn’t really mean it when she glares and tells her she should have shipped her off to Bob at AutoUniverse instead of taking her in.

She knows what it means when the barbs stop altogether, when she’s silent instead.

It’s in the quiet moments.

It’s when Miranda stops dismissing her with a That’s all, and Andy realizes it’s an invitation to stay nearer while she completes the rest of her work and Andy feels like she’s on top of the world but can’t understand why that is.

But things start to crack when, on one of those nights that Miranda and Andy work in mutual silence in the former’s den, when Miranda tells her she will be coming to Paris instead of Emily, that Andy will have to be the one to tell her.

The crack deepens when Miranda actually dismisses her the night she receives the divorce papers, a stern Your job sending Andy straight into the arms of Christian Thompson. She was desperate to stop the odd, heavy feeling in her chest, and found comfort in a familiar face and a familiar dance between crisp sheets.

When she woke, she had the strange sense that she had somehow cheated on Miranda, that she had committed some kind of deep betrayal that she couldn’t understand. It made her uneasy, her stomach churning, which only worsened when she discovered the mutiny underfoot. She told herself it was only because her rendezvous kept her from being attentive to any and all of Miranda’s needs. Yes, that was all it was.

I’m not your baby, she’d spat, searching the floor of the hotel room for her discarded clothes, not daring to look up at him as he protested her departure.

It wasn’t much of a loss. Sure, he was pretty and smart, but his eyes were never quite the right shade of blue. Certainly no cerulean.

She hobbled her way through the streets of Paris without so much as a glance back, last night’s mascara today’s smoky eyeliner, Blahniks on the wrong feet, her almost-dead phone pressed tightly to her ear and a silent prayer on her lips.

Then there was the tiniest bit of relief she felt when Miranda met her at her hotel door. A relief that lasted exactly two seconds.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Miranda snapped, the vitriol saturating her voice causing Andy to stumble backwards.

She tried not to let it get to her, swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, and continued her quest in a renewed panic. “I–no, I–Miranda I need to talk to you–”

Her slow perusal of Andy’s form makes the assistant squirm, knowing how she must look to the editor. She hadn’t spared enough time to brush her hair let alone shower or change clothes. Miranda sees the tangled frizz of her bangs, the bra that peeks out from the top of her dress that is somewhat stretched now after wearing it all day yesterday, the hem of the garment sitting unevenly on the tops of her thighs. She gulped and Miranda met her eyes, her own filled with a silent rage.

“Don't bother me again. I should hope the next time you deign to grace me with your presence you’ll be cleaned up. You smell like a brothel.”

The next thing she knew, the door was slammed in Andy’s face and she suddenly felt like throwing up.

The fissure turns into a gorge, deep and uncrossable when Miranda unveils Jacqueline’s new position at Holt International and Andy has to watch Nigel’s face fall as he has to swallow his feelings in front of everyone else at the luncheon. He believes she will pay him back in due time, but, looking up at her politician smile, Andy doesn’t share his confidence.

The churning in her gut burns deep and her confusion over the day’s events turns her throbbing headache into a full blown migraine. Andy can’t reconcile the woman that has been taking her under a Givenchy-clad wing with the one that has betrayed her closest friend without as much as a bat of an eye.

God, she feels sick.

When they sit in the back of the town car, Andy believes Miranda must be able to sense the discomfort emanating from her body that she presses as close as she can to the side door, unwilling to have the skin of her knee brush with Miranda’s.

For once, her being isn’t pointed at her boss, eager and willing for any attention–a sunflower begging for the morning rays. Today, she’s been scalded and burnt.

Did Andy ever really know Miranda like she thought? Or was she just shown a persona, one Miranda calculated she would care for, a mask she kept on until it suited her otherwise?

Miranda begins speaking to her, cutting the tense silence, but Andy doesn’t register much of it, too caught up in her own feelings, until she hears “I see a great deal of myself in you” and the side of the gorge Andy is on breaks off and into the ocean and she feels so so alone.

Her breath catches in her throat and the silence that follows isn’t the same, easy silence they shared in those long nights at the office or in Miranda’s den–this is a different creature altogether, dark and slithering in the caverns of her heart.

She gets the urge to run, to get as far away from Miranda and Nigel and the world of fashion forever. She can’t be that person that hurts someone she cares about, betrays them without a second thought. She can’t do what Miranda did to Nigel. Andy is good and kind and smart and so very Midwestern. She can’t lose sight of herself like that.

Miranda says “Everyone wants to be us” and Andy can tell her smile is pained and shaky, but the editor plasters a smile on her face anyway as the car rolls to a stop.

Andy pauses before following Miranda out of the car but she does it.

Miranda is swallowed up by the sea of paparazzi and reporters and Andy hesitates.

She watches as Miranda climbs the steps and she sees when Miranda realizes Andy is there–for once, she hasn’t followed.

And she does what Miranda doesn’t do and she looks back, searching for Andy, confused when she can’t feel her assistant’s presence and the security that brings.

And Andy sees the mother, desperately trying to save her failing marriage for her children’s sake, taking Steven’s yelling at the top of the stairs, swallowing her pride as to not drive away another father figure for the girls. She sees the woman, makeup-less and defeated, in nothing but a silk gray robe in a lonely Paris hotel room. She sees the woman scared of her future, of losing everything she cares about because the men in her life dared to take them from her.

She sees the woman that ignited something in Andy all those months ago when she didn’t praise her efforts for being smart like all of her teachers ever had. She sees the woman that made her want to prove herself, to work for something and not get by with her intellect alone.

Most importantly, she sees the woman that took a chance on her and she knows what she has to do.

She needs to take a chance and put her faith in Miranda.

The look on the editor’s face turns into resigned disbelief at Andy’s continuous disappearance, and she turns to enter the hotel, refusing to let the media see the hurt in her expression.

Miranda is a stray dog, backed into a corner; Andy can’t be surprised when she bites, can she? And if she left, she’d be betraying Miranda just the same as everyone in her life that has claimed to care about her has done.

Andy can’t bear to hurt Miranda any further than life has already.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, and leaps, rushing across the street if only to be back by Miranda’s side. The white haired woman has always been so incredibly infuriating with her pursed lips and her quiet disgust, but the relief in Miranda’s shoulders when Andy lays a gentle hand on her elbow, announcing her presence, makes Andy feel something so delicious and whole on the inside that she almost forgives all of Miranda’s crimes. Almost.

She sees Christian leering over at her from across the room and tries steering Miranda clear of him for the rest of the party, unwilling to get stuck in a conversation with him lest Miranda notice she doesn’t have her full attention.

Andy still isn’t sure she hasn’t escaped her wrath from the day’s events.

But Andy isn’t that lucky and of course anything that could go wrong does.

Christian approaches and he’s all curly haired and a boyish grin and confidence only a mediocre white man could have. Andy greets him reluctantly and hopes he’ll get the hint when she doesn’t return any of his smiles or his attempts at sweeping her away from Miranda’s grip.

Miranda stops her conversation with whatever designer has coveted her attention and she turns to watch–no, stare–at the scene in front of her. She has the most intense expression of disgust and displeasure on her face but it doesn't deter Christian at all, spurs him on even more if that’s possible.

“Miranda!” Christian greets, as if he wasn’t part of an attempted mutiny mere hours ago. “Tell Andy here that you don’t need her for the rest of the night and that she’s free to accompany me to dinner.”

He turns on the charm and dares to reach out to grasp Andy’s waist, heavy and suffocating, Miranda’s eyes following the movement as he does so.

She goes rigid next at her side and Andy knows that he’s angered the beast. Her eyes widen in warning but Christian ignores it.

“C’mon, Andy, what do you say?”

“Christian, I don’t think–”

“A nice dinner, some Parisian wine, maybe have a bit of a repeat of last night?” He makes it sound like he’s giving her the offer of the century but Andy can’t find it in herself to be anything other than repulsed.

Andy hopes that Miranda doesn’t realize what he means but of course it’s in vain. Miranda is one of the most intelligent and perceptive beings Andy has ever met.

She feels Miranda’s stare on her, sharp and intimidating, and she hesitantly meets her eyes only to be met with conflicted emotions in her gaze. Andy wonders if she feels betrayed, that Andy has slept with the enemy, on the eve of her would-be-ousting no less.

The emotion there is honest and raw, something Andy is becoming more and more privy to as the Paris trip proceeds. Andy’s throat closes up and her eyes burn and she feels such shame. She would take it all back if she could.

Miranda clears her throat and steadies herself, not looking away from Andy’s face.

“Andrea,” she starts, licking her lips in a rare display of nerves, but at the last second her expression hardens. “You may have the night off.”

And with that, she whisks away, and immediately she is engaged in conversation across the room.

“Shall we?” Christian takes the arm Miranda has abandoned and begins to lead her to the door before she can refuse.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Christian,” she stops them in their tracks, and she knows she has said it loud enough for the room to hear because she feels Miranda’s eyes on her again. She doesn’t quite know why it’s so important to her that her boss hears this. “I don’t want to see you again. I only went to dinner with you last night because I was lonely and as a thank you for helping me. Anything else was a fluke and, really, none of it was particularly memorable for me.”

Andy doesn’t stay long enough to watch his face fall or his cheeks redden in embarrassment, choosing instead to find her way back to Miranda’s side and take her rightful place there.

Miranda clutches her arm and doesn’t let go until the soirée is over and they’re back in the car.

And Miranda doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t mention anything about Andy’s departure or where she’d been.

The car ride is silent.

In the absence of an angry tirade or sharp barbs aimed at all her deepest insecurities, Andy figures it out. Suddenly, she knows exactly how Miranda feels about her.

Then they’re back in Miranda’s hotel room and Andy has to ask, can’t keep it in any longer, “Are we going to talk about it?”

Miranda just stares at her.

When it’s clear Andy is waiting for an answer, Miranda sighs and sticks her with a pointed stare. “Are we going to talk about whatever you got up to last night? How does your little boyfriend feel about your rendezvous?”

And Andy should have known better than to ask a question that would make Miranda emotionally vulnerable, should have known her hand would get bitten by cornering her in such a way. But she is cornered too.

“There is no boyfriend! And you pushed me away, Miranda, just like you always do. Maybe the media is right, you’ll always have a heart of ice.”

She immediately regrets it, winces where she stands. And just like that, Andy’s cards are all on the table without her even noticing.

She expects Miranda’s wrath, almost wants it, wants a screaming fight to get all these, these feelings out, but it never comes.

Miranda knows jabs and uppercuts, she uses them often enough herself you know, and can see through Andy’s words for what they really are. Andy is vulnerable and uses her words for protection. For what, she is determined to find out.

“Your cook is gone? Since when has this been the case?”

Andy sighs, rubs her tired eyes, not caring about ruining her makeup. “He ended it before we left. Moved out all the furniture and everything.” She can’t stop the sarcastic laugh from leaving her lips.

Miranda takes a step towards Andy, steadies herself with her knuckles pressed to the wood of the entryway table, keeps her gaze on her. “He just up and decided he no longer wanted a beautiful and ambitious young woman? He must be dumber than I thought.”

“Nate isn’t dumb,” Andy felt the need to defend herself, “I wouldn’t date anyone dumb let alone move to New York with them.”

Miranda’s smile is almost predatory.

She tsks. “So you’re saying his decision to break up with you was smart, Andrea?”

Her closeness paired with the sultry way she says her name has Andy flustered and grappling for a response.

One of Miranda’s palms finds Andy’s waist and she can’t breathe let alone think. The words just spill out of her.

“He said the person whose calls you always take, that’s the relationship you’re in. And he wasn’t wrong.”

“And if not Nate’s,” Miranda says his name like she can’t get it off her tongue fast enough, “whose calls do you always take, pray tell?”

When Andy doesn’t immediately answer, Miranda drags her thumb across Andy’s abdomen and she can feel the heat from it through the fabric of her dress. She inhales sharply and she swears she hears Miranda snicker under her breath.

“Answer me, Andrea.” Miranda’s voice is low and sultry and Andy hopes to whatever deity is listening that the slick in her underwear doesn’t ruin her couture too.

“Yours, Miranda,” Andy’s words almost sound like a gasp. “Always yours.”

“Hmm,” Miranda hums. “That’s true, isn’t it? You’re a good little assistant, aren’t you?” Andy’s eyes slip closed with want, not wanting Miranda to see it in her eyes. “Is that all it is? You wanting to please me?”

Andy bites her lip, all her effort focused on not moaning aloud when Miranda uses that tone. There’s none leftover for thinking about her next words.

“You’re important to me. Me, Andy, not me, your assistant.”

Miranda pauses, as if she knew but wasn’t prepared to hear it even though she asked.

And Andy hears it, there in the quiet, knows what it means.

“Andrea,” Miranda warns, taking another step forward so their bodies are only a mere hair’s breadth apart.

She waits until Andy looks up at her.

“You’re fired.”

It isn’t harsh or angry but Andy feels the need to protest anyway.

“What? No. Miranda, I–”

“Effective immediately. Do you understand?”

“You can’t do that, I love this job, I–”

Miranda rolls her eyes impatiently and lightly grasps Andy’s jaw. “Andrea,” she says as sternly as she can muster in the moment, “do shut up now. We have important things to attend to.”

Miranda leans in slowly, giving her time to object or pull away, but when she doesn’t, Andy feels the softest, warmest lips on her own. Miranda considers why she hasn’t ever used this silencing method before. It’s quite efficient, really.

The kiss becomes more insistent and hands follow suit, and then Andy’s on her back, half dressed on the upholstered couch. Miranda’s on top of her and she’s peeling back layers of clothing until she’s bare in front of her. Andy wasn’t expecting the slow perusal of her skin, the soft caresses and kisses wherever she could reach. In her daydreams, Miranda would be efficient as she was at work, taking Andy with her fingers, bent over her desk or under her skirt in the quiet of the car. It never lasted more than a few minutes and always left her wanting more.

This, though, this was devastatingly tortuous, the way Miranda played her body, wound her up as tightly as she’s ever been.

Andy is sure she must have begged and begged until Miranda slithered down her body and she took pity on the young girl, her mouth feasting on the swollen flesh between her legs until they shake and clamp down on her head, keeping her in place.

And Miranda is either a generous lover or an evil one, because she doesn’t stop when Andy’s pleasure peaks, once, twice, three times, and Andy loses track by the end of the night.

It’s deep into the night when they wake in Miranda’s bed, around 4 if Andy guesses correctly by the color of the night–morning?--sky.

Miranda’s face is tucked into Andy’s neck, the fluff of her hair tickling at her chin, and her hand splayed low on the plane of Andy’s stomach.

She’s not sure why she breaks the contented silence, but she does.

“I almost didn’t come back.”

Miranda’s fingers pause their movements on her skin and she stiffens.

“Then why did you?”

Andy isn’t sure. She mulls it over, threads her fingers through Miranda’s short white tresses, intent on making sure she knows Andy isn’t going anywhere.

“I couldn’t leave you behind,” she answers eventually, “not when you needed me. Not ever.”

And that thing between them, the one that is left unsaid, the one neither of them is willing to lose, is a little less unsaid than before.

Miranda stays quiet but she restarts drawing random patterns on Andy’s skin. That’s okay, Andy understands that it’s Miranda’s actions, not her words, that matter most.

It’s days, months, years later when they’re sitting on the couch in the den. Andy leans against the arm rest, her legs stretched out on Miranda’s lap. She caresses the skin of Andy’s ankle that peeks out between the bottom of her sweatpants and the top of her sock while she glances through the Book.

It’s in the quiet moments like these that Andy feels all the love Miranda holds for her. She is content and she is happy. No words need to be exchanged between them to make it real.

But, this time, Miranda carefully sets the Book down on the coffee table in front of her, and turns to Andy.

“You know,” she says quietly, “I never thought I’d be deserving of a love like this, or that it even existed. It was just something made up for those silly Hallmark movies, propaganda for the children.” Miranda turns fully towards her. “I love you, Andrea, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to thank you for this gift you’ve given me.”

Andy is still and her eyes are glittering with unshed tears. Miranda could be so eloquent with her words when she wanted to be, and romantic. Miranda makes sure to use her words sometimes because she knows how much it means to Andy that she trusts her with them. It fills Andy’s heart with warmth every time.

Miranda pulls out a little velvet box from Andy isn’t sure where and opens it to show a stunning, emerald cut solitaire ring–not gaudy or too large that Andy would feel silly wearing it.

“Forgive me for not dropping to a knee, darling, but I’m a bit too old for that,” Miranda chuckles under her breath and gives Andy a warm smile.

Andy gasps, sitting straight up quickly enough to make her somewhat dizzy, as she finally realizes what’s happening.

“Allow me to say so in front of all our family and friends?”

Andy launches herself into Miranda’s arms that tightly enclose her. There’s a flurry of kisses and touches and there are no words.

They don’t need them.

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